


There's a crack in everything; that's how the light gets in

by yonnna



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, claudia saves illness in 2002 and they live happily ever after, references to violence/death/abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 07:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8569471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonnna/pseuds/yonnna
Summary: Illness’ life if Claudia had rescued her in 2002.





	

“Um, she’s not here right now, but I can —” Illness offers her most helpful tone; she’s not used to being helpful yet, but she has seen Claudia do it enough that she can manage a solid imitation. She doesn’t have the expression to match, lips pursed into a childish pout and lithe fingers idly twirling the telephone wire, but if she can at least _sound_  like a regular person, that’s a start. “Are you really going to throw your laptop out the window, mister? I-Is that a normal thing to do? Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Illness doesn’t hate answering phone calls all day — at least, not as much as she thought she would. When Claudia had first told her she had a job for her, her stomach had twisted with dread:  _job_  was a dirty word, a euphemism for _assassination_  or _torture_  or _mass murder_. Jobs, in her experience, left her throwing up her breakfast and picking at her scars, with the scent of rot clinging to her clothes and writhing faces clinging to her memory. 

This job left her with a slight headache, sometimes. Other times, when Claudia was less busy, she took all the calls herself, and she didn’t have to do anything at all. ‘It’ll only be when I really, really need your help — and if you don’t like it just tell me! I wouldn’t want to make any friend of mine do something she doesn’t want to do,’ Claudia had assured her, ‘I need someone I can trust to help me handle my world.’

Claudia had clearly thought she was asking a huge favour of her, but after everything she’d done to help Illness, she didn’t think twice before accepting. She never would have thought work could _be_  so painless. 

“Could you stop yelling? It’s hurting my ear.” Helpful tone or not, her word choice is as blunt as ever. She’s starting to come to terms with the fact that it’s considered _normal_  to get angry during phone calls, that her inability to see any reason to get worked up about this stuff is yet another abnormality (one which, Claudia says, is a blessing). Being told to stay calm in the face of much worse has dulled her to the every day emergencies of _Claudia hasn’t gotten back to me about our casting decision_  and _I’ve been trying to get in touch about the movie proposition for a week now_ ; she wonders how these people would react if they had a gun pointed at their head, then she feels sick for wondering. “Listen, I already said she’s not here. Can I hang up now? I’m gonna hang up now.”

And she does. _Thud, click, dial tone_. 

Maybe the other reason Illness doesn’t _hate_  answering phone calls all day is because she doesn’t _have_  to be good at it: the biggest skill to taking calls for a celebrity is being unafraid, or in her case unaware, of being shamelessly rude ( _honest_ , as Claudia calls it). Flighty, immature, petty insubordination had been her only solace as a Mask Maker, and now it is so much her nature that it also functions as her only known talent. 

She presses back against her chair and juts her head up to look at the time. Two hours until Claudia gets back. She surprises herself with how _okay_  she can feel when the other girl is around; she is loud and bright, and her presence dominates every corner of every room she enters and every mind she inhabits. It’s the quiet moments in between that she struggles with, in between the calls and the visits from Claudia and Charon and Czes, when she has time to think and everything, _everything_ , becomes a reminder of what she is and where she came from. In the vaguest terms possible, she has tried to confide this to Claudia — not the _what_  or _where_ , but the feeling of it, the sickness — and she advised seeking distractions. 

So she does, and though it doesn’t erase the nausea it does subdue the memories. It helps.

On the wall next to the clock a B-movie is playing on loop; Claudia’s manager had suggested that she use the screen in her office to show off she and her brother’s best work to anyone who drops by, and being not entirely humble she’d agreed wholeheartedly — on the condition that _she and her brother_ , and not her manager, got to define the words _best works_. So it was B-grade films, loaded with heart and bad graphics. 

These are Illness’ favourites, too. She recalls having the argument with Rookie once, about which of Claudia Walken’s films is the best. He’d argued ‘ _Les Oiseaux Roses_ ’ for it’s cinematography and thematic poignancy; she’d argued ‘ _The Zombie That Lived Under My House’_  because the action sequences involve a lot of cool backflips, and it doesn’t need CGI — the zombie effect was entirely makeup art and bad posture — and it’s  _fun_. Fun is something, she’d learned, the other mask makers rarely appreciate. 

She watches Claudia, movie Claudia, put a stake through a vampire’s heart, but Illness is busy wondering whether Rookie will make sure it’s _artistic_  and _thematic_  when he orders someone to come slit her throat. 

Maybe he won’t, maybe he doesn’t care that she defected, but she doesn’t let herself hope for that. The night his father’s team killed her family, there’d been an unspoken deal: her life — not an easy life, but a life without physical scarring, for her service — not an easy service, but a service that didn’t require her blood as sacrifice. It had been a fair trade. It had been more, she thought, than a sick person like her could ever deserve. She’d retracted her end of the deal; it was only a matter of time before he retracted his father’s.

Maybe she’ll be lucky; maybe he’ll decide she’s more useful dead than alive. She wonders is this would be considered _lucky —_

The phone rings. She answers. 

 

* * *

 

 

“I can’t believe Charon locked you out _again._ ” A soft sigh, thin brow furrowed in a thin veil of frustration; this is the only sort Claudia ever demonstrates, because isn’t it a waste to be _deeply_  frustrated when one can be happy instead? She refuses to let that much negativity into her world. “I’m so sorry, Illness — I promise you’ll have your own key soon!” 

Illness steps through the open doorway, looking at once both frightfully bemused and extremely grateful, blonde locks swaying as she shakes her head. 

“It’s okay, really — he didn’t _mean_ to,” and she knew this, because she’d lived in an environment where being locked out in the cold was a vindictive punishment, and because Charon getting lost in his own world and forgetting that she wasn’t home yet doesn’t compare. Claudia’s concern makes her feel welcome — but it also makes her feel guilty. She shouldn’t be spending her time worrying about someone like her. “A-And anyway, you don’t _have_ to get me a key.”

“Illness.” Claudia has a way of saying her name that sounds enough like the beginning of a lecture to get her to listen, and enough like the beginning of a poem to put her at ease. Her lips curve into a sympathetic smile. “You live here. Of course I’m going to get you a key!”

 

* * *

 

 

Living with the Walken siblings keeps her grounded, it keeps her head out of the clouds and her thoughts out of the dark. It keeps her busy.

On Wednesday and Fridays, and sometimes Saturdays, Claudia asks Illness to help her rehearse. This involves Illness shakily reading lines off of a script, her stutter more noticeable than she’d like, while Claudia performs from heart pages and pages of dialogue, acting around her dry recital magnificently. She enjoys it more than she expects to every time, because she’s used to feeling out of place and out of sync with the rest of the world, and at least Claudia doesn’t call her weird for it.

Every other night, while Claudia is out filming or signing autographs, Illness practises stunts with Charon. There’s an odd comfort in this, too. Partially because it’s familiar, and partially because, though being forced to kill had repulsed her, she hadn’t minded learning to fight. Taken out of the context of mercenary work, it’s _cool_  to have the skills necessary to move like an action hero, and here she is, with an opportunity to apply these skills the way _she_  wants to. 

Charon reminds her of Rookie when he moves, sometimes. It’s watching this lithe, bony body perform stunts as though it was _made_  for it, as though his thin frame was somehow suited to this level of athleticism, even though logic said otherwise. He teaches her how to do five backflips without stopping and she teaches him how to hold a gun to make it look more realistic. Sometimes she feels like a useful person, and not just a monster, for knowing these things. 

He hands her a water bottle at the end of their training session. They sit together in mostly silence for a while, and it’s the only kind of silence Illness has learned to cope with, because silence is Charon’s way of opening up. He’s a weird boy, and in the presence of his abnormality she feels more comfortable in her own. 

“So, uh, why’s she out so late tonight? Claudia, I mean —”

“Party.” 

“Oh.” Illness can’t do anything but accept the straightforward answer. “Does she go to parties a lot?”

Charon shakes his head, and she assumes it’s in answer to her question until he clarifies: “Not going. Getting ready.” 

She blinks, then nods, processing the fact that it could take an entire night just to _get ready_  for a party. “I didn’t know it took that long to set up a party. What do they, um, spend all that time on?”

Charon’s shoulders lift into a shrug. 

“Shopping?” 

 

* * *

 

 

Charon is surprisingly intuitive. 

“What do you think?” Claudia already knows what she thinks and this is what matters the most — but she’s eager to hear her best friend’s opinion. Even if the world is all of her making anyway, it’s nice to hear a positive response. She watches her reflection in the mirror then spins to face Illness head on, and pressing: “Do you like it?”

Maybe she asks because Illness looks a bit vacant. In truth, Illness likes _everything_  Claudia wears: her sense of style is enviable, a light, sort of flowery look that she could never pull off herself, and it helps that most things seem to suit her frame and complexion. It puts her in a bit of a daze sometimes, standing in front of a girl who looks like she belongs on a magazine cover. Claudia pushes a strand of red hair out of her face and offers an expectant smile, and Illness registers her question, eyes wide and brows high. 

“Um, you look amazing!” She doesn’t realise she’s smiling, too, until Claudia turns sharply back to the mirror, satisfied smirk lighting up her features. _Amazing_  is right: the dress is a shimmering gold that brings out her eyes and the gleam of her hair, and Illness is reminded, for the thousandth time, that she’s standing next to a veritable celebrity. 

“Thank you, Illness. I’m really glad you agree!” And for a moment she feels a little less abnormal, because if her compliment means something to a good person then surely she must be okay. 

This is the true gift of Claudia Walken. Her skill for performance is a wonder to behold, but more wonderful is her skill for making _every_  person in her life feel like they are important, like they _belong_  here. To Claudia, this is because they _do_ : she handpicks the people she chooses to have in her life to make her world the best world it can possibly be. To Illness, this is because she’s _kind_ : she fell into her world, and Claudia accepted her. 

“I got you a matching one!” 

There’s a beat, which must be more noticeable than Illness realises, before she smiles hesitantly and murmurs: “Oh.” 

While Claudia quirks her head in confusion, Illness picks at loose threads on her skirt. Her eyes dart up briefly to take in the dress again, the thin straps and the low cut back; she thinks about the splatter of scars across her arms and back and swallows the lump in her throat. 

“I, uh, I didn’t know I was invited —” 

“Of course you are! You’re my plus one.” 

Illness thinks she should be very happy; she’s never been to a party, unless staking one out counts, and to be invited as _Claudia’s_  guest — Claudia, who manages to put her at ease like a best friend should and simultaneously make her heart race like an idol should — is beyond anything she’s dreamed of. Illness thinks she should be very happy, but all she can do is wonder whether Claudia will retract the invitation when she finds out she’s not really a human being. 

“Oh — uh, okay.” 

She’s nodding, but all she’s really aware of is the tightening in her chest. Claudia hands her the shopping bag and she accepts it mechanically, fingers grasping tight around it. 

“Let me know when you try it on, okay? I want to see how it looks.”

Claudia smiles so brightly that Illness can’t find it in her to refuse. 

 

* * *

 

 

Her room is painted a sunny shade of yellow, like a bumblebee or a daffodil; ‘it suits you’, Claudia had said, because through her eyes her ragged bleached hair has sunshine in it and the bright stripes of her gothic dress are a homage to the summer. She finds comfort in her ability to see good where there’s no intention of it. There are five windows — not one, not two, not even a reasonable four, one for each wall, but _five —_ two tall ones stretching out across the wall opposite her bed, a smaller one on either side, and one just above the head of her bed to wake her up with sunrise every morning. Claudia says that it’s important to get sunlight, that she worries about how pale she looks, that she doesn’t think anyone should be stuck in the dark.

Even with the brightest wallpaper, it’s still dark behind her eyelids when she tries to sleep; the night is an ocean, cold and black, and she gets dragged under by waves of memory. Sometimes she is seven and the world is blurred save for stinging pain, and sometimes she is thirteen and she puts a bullet through a man’s head. Sometimes she is seventeen and the Mask Makers find where she is and kill her. If she wakes up suddenly enough she can feel wounds burning, old and new and imagined. She sleeps on her side in case the nausea hits her without warning. Sometimes she doesn’t sleep at all and sits at the windowsill instead, watching the flickering lights of the city, trying to imagine that they are enough to fend off the dark.

This night is one of the latter. She traces urban constellations in the familiar strip of lights — apartment buildings with lots of tiny lights flickering on and off arbitrarily, clubs with neon lights blazing in the darkness, traffic lights and headlights, and in her mind they’re the shimmer of the sequins on Claudia new dress and the glow of her smile when she’d looked at her. Maybe she won’t mind her scars, she dares herself to think, maybe she won’t ask why she has them, maybe she won’t ever have to find out that Illness isn’t a _person_  in the same way that Claudia Walken is. 

Maybe. Maybe she’ll send her back where she came from. Maybe she’ll realise that someone like her _belongs_  with criminals and mercenaries. She doesn’t realise she’s crying until she tries to take a deep breath and ends up with a sob instead, but once it hits her she doesn’t make any attempt to stop. It isn’t a freak occurrence for her — crying; however, being interrupted by a knock at the door _is_. 

She jumps, turning her head with a sharpness that doesn’t suit the gentleness with which the door is opened. A red curl peeks through the doorway, then a soft voice: “Illness? Is everything okay?” 

She isn’t sure why she gets to her feet. It’s not as though standing in the middle of her room crying at three in the morning will look any less strange than sitting by her window crying at three in the morning — but for whatever instinctive reason, she stands, brushes a few stray strands of blonde hair out of her face, and rubs so ferociously at her eyes that it only worsens their redness. 

“E-E-Everything’s fine, I just... just couldn’t sleep!” 

Claudia’s delicate features crinkle in concern as she invites herself to perch on the edge of the bed, but rather than press Illness, she just nods sympathetically. Illness is a poor liar, but there’s no need to put her even more on edge. 

“I couldn’t either. I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow!” yet it’s not a sigh of exasperation that escapes her lips; it sounds almost _dreamy_. The concern in her expression melts away, and she is grinning, confident, boisterous Claudia again. “I love celebrations in my honour. They’re exactly how the rest of life should be, you know? I’m at the centre of it all, and everyone feels like if they don’t get noticed by me they don’t exist — which, after all, _they don’t_.”

Illness doesn’t really understand her when she gets like this: it’s far from the realistic understanding of the world that the Mask Makers imparted on her, and even further from the ideology she was brought up with. Illness, after all, was also the centre of _her own_  world as a child, but in that world the position wasn’t a gift — it meant martyrdom and suffering, pain so that others could be happy. In Claudia’s world, there is a different trade entirely: kindness that others can be happy, confidence and contentment in her own existence and charity to everyone else. Illness is sure that it’s not normal, but Claudia says it with such conviction and such self-assurance that in the moment she says it she truly does _believe_  that Claudia’s belief in her is something special.  

She nods slowly, queasy smile forcing its way onto her face. 

“Uh-huh, m-me too! I c-can’t wait.”

Claudia’s lips purse into a small frown, perhaps because excitement over a party doesn’t usually result in crying in the middle of the night. Illness is an odd girl in many ways, but even so, emotions are emotions. 

“Illness,” and there it is again, commanding her attention whether she likes it or not. She shakes her head, curls slowly unravelling from the loose ponytail her hair is tied into. “Please don’t lie to me. I don’t like seeing my best friend upset. If you don’t want to go to the party, really, it’s okay — ”

“N-No, uh, it’s not that!” In some senses it is, but not in such simple terms. Picking at the fraying ends of her hair, she qualifies her outburst: “I, um, I really, really want to go! Really! I just, I, uh, can’t sleep well — I have nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” Claudia straightens, taking a small step closer, her voice suddenly a whisper as understanding sunk in. “You mean about what you did before? Illness, it’s not your fault. None of what you did then was your choice.” 

But she still did it. No matter how many times she hears Claudia try to affirm her morality, Illness has already convinced herself that she was a monster for her actions then. If it was only the memories of her victims that haunted her at night, it would be _fair_ , it would be unchangeable — but they are not alone in her thoughts, and there are other things that Claudia _can_  reassure her in. She swallows her trepidation and shakes her head. 

“N-Not that — er, I mean, s-sometimes that, but I’m, uh, used to that. It’s more.” A staggered breath as she sits back down at the windowsill, gaze set as far away from Claudia’s as possible. “I keep dreaming that they’re going to kill me.”

“They’re _dead_ —”

“Not _th-them_. The people I, uh, worked with.” 

“Why would they want to kill you?” 

She sits down beside her, obscenely calm, and Illness suppresses her tremor by balling her fists in the fabric of her nightgown. 

“Because I owed them my life and I’m h-here living it instead. I don’t deserve t-to be here.”

“This is my world, and if I say you deserve to be here, you deserve to be here. Anyone who tries to take that away from you will have to go through me.”

Then Claudia’s soft hand lays itself over hers and squeezes, gently, and her melodic voice says the only words that would help her sleep that night. 

“You don’t owe your life to anyone, Illness. It’s _yours_.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next day Illness summons whatever part of her is strong enough to stomach the rejection and torment she’s already experienced in her life and convinces herself she can’t sink any lower by trying on a dress. 

It’s a beautiful design, on and off of Claudia. Illness had thought there was no way it could suit her half as well, but looking at her reflection, she almost thinks the boldness of it might be enough to distract from the angry flesh of her exposed skin. She studies herself in the mirror, wondering if, standing next to Claudia, she might look like a star, too — or at least an assistant one. Either one would be an improvement to looking like a freak.

When she steps into Claudia’s room, Illness can read the concern in her widened eyes, her limp smile, her momentary silence, but as credit to her acting she recovers after a beat and grins broadly, saying only that Illness _looks beautiful_ , and asking her to take a seat so that she can do her hair. She lets herself feel relieved by this: not because she genuinely thinks Claudia hasn’t noticed, but because Claudia is once again kind enough to forgive her abnormalities. 

She sits at Claudia’s vanity, and she stands behind her, brushing blonde locks away from her face. Her eyes cautiously trace the map of scars spanning her back, and as she begins braiding a section of Illness’ hair, she speaks, more hesitantly than Illness has ever heard her. “I didn’t realise you got hurt so much. I guess I should have realised — in your line of work.”

There’s a pause in which Illness decides whether or not to let her believe this, and Claudia must notice the way she worries her bottom lip, because she’s quick to clarify: “It’s okay! I mean, it’s not _okay_  but — there’s nothing wrong with having scars.”

“That’s not it.”

Her fingers come to a slow pause, leaving a half finished braid at the back of Illness’s head, and her hand moves to rest carefully on her shoulder instead. “Illness?”

Illness shifts in her seat, made more hesitant by the comforting tone of Claudia’s voice, but after a beat she explains: “They aren’t from, uh — fighting people.”

Claudia’s silence is a question Illness doesn’t want to answer, and she is gracious enough not to _voice_ it. Frowning in a way that somehow seems more profound and meaningful for how rare a sight it is, Claudia shakes her head. 

“Why would anyone do this?”

Hearing these words, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, Illness must remind herself of how incredibly different she and Claudia are. Claudia was brought up with the knowledge that even strangers she passes on the street ought to love her, because she is the centre of her world and her world is full of light; of course it wouldn’t occur to her that there are people who spend all of their time in the dark. _Of course_ she would find it difficult to grasp the concept that Illness was brought up with the knowledge that even her own parents thought she was born to suffer. She suppresses a growing urge to be sick as best she can and offers the explanation she had been force fed for all those years: “It was the only way they could be happy.”

“I don’t understand.”

She wants to say that _she knows_ , that she doesn’t expect her to, that it’s enough for her to still be standing there now. It’s enough that she’s not repulsed by her. It’s enough that she thinks there’s nothing wrong with having scars; it’s enough that she thinks there’s nothing wrong with _her_. She doesn’t have to understand —

But this is a lot to say, and Illness has never been an eloquent person. She just nods slowly and rests her head back on Claudia, soft voice sounding worn, exhausted.

“Neither did I.” 

And Claudia understands a little more. 

 

* * *

 

 

As glamorous as the idea had sounded, Illness decides that maybe she doesn’t actually _like_  parties. The night is a flurry of loud music and rude people, and the lights disorientate her so much that she has to step out a few times to keep herself from throwing up. 

Illness doesn’t actually _like_  parties, but she likes watching Claudia’s speech. She likes hearing her talk about how much she loved working on the film, and how happy it makes her to have so many new people in her world. When she’s finished she goes over to Illness and asks her to dance with her, and when Illness says she feels too dizzy she takes her hand to lead her out into the corridor, and Illness thinks this makes her feel even dizzier but she doesn’t _say_  it. They spend the next twenty minutes out there, dancing to distant hum of music and talking about B movies, and even though she doesn’t like parties she has never enjoyed herself more.

Illness doesn’t like parties, but she likes Claudia.  


End file.
